At Midnight
by Vytina
Summary: He set the boundaries to never stray from, drew the lines to never be crossed, and set the rules to never be broken.  And every night he has kept his distance.  But tonight may be the night he can't resist her any further.


**A/N: Another oneshot for Batman Beyond for Terry McGinnis and Melanie Walker. This one focuses solely on Terry's conflict of feelings, and how he has finally reached the point where he might just have to give in.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything of Batman Beyond. I only own this piece.**

**Note: I respect that there are other fan pairings out there besides this one. Please respect my personal favorite and I will return you the same courtesy. Thank you in advance.**

**Title: At Midnight**

**Summary: He set the boundaries to never stray from, drew the lines to never be crossed, and set the rules to never be broken. And every night he has kept his distance. But tonight may be the night he can't resist her any further.**

**Rating: T for mild innuendos **

**Character Pairing: Terry McGinnis x Melanie Walker**

**

* * *

**

At Midnight

He knows the city well. He knows the buildings like the back of his hand—the offices of prominent officials, the schools, the restaurants…all of them. And he knows nearly every house, apartment, and all other residences of the city. He knows the homes of the average citizens—the ones who paid their taxes and lived their lives with little to no consequences. And he knew the homes of those _select_ citizens who lived two lives—the respectable one that the public applauded and nodded on with approval, and the one lived in the criminal underworld, one which only a few people knew about…including him, the Batman.

He _had_ to know these places, and he had to know them well. It was his duty and obligation—Batman's duty. Observe and protect, fortify and combat. Be the silent watcher, the guardian who lingers in the shadows. Be invincible and indestructible, and remember that you have no limits.

Batman has no limits.

In the beginning, he wondered how the old man did it all those years ago. He wondered how Bruce Wayne and Batman could live such separate lives. How Wayne could distinguish between the billionaire playboy and the dark vigilante protector of Gotham City…and how the line between both men could never be blurred, never confused. How did Wayne let himself transform into Batman, simply by putting on the mask and disappearing into the night.

How naïve such thoughts can be—how naïve those thoughts _were_.

He knows better now. He knows that Bruce Wayne was the mask, and Batman is the real face. And he knows that to truly follow in his mentor's footsteps, he must let Batman be his true face, his true identity. He must let himself lose all other aspects of his being and fully embrace the night. He must lose his limitations and his fears…even his emotions.

Batman can do that.

But Terry McGinnis isn't so sure that he can.

And he's never been sure that he can. He has friends and family. Wayne let his friends and family slip away, let himself become Batman so thoroughly that it became part of his identity down to the core, to the very cells of his being. Wayne no longer needs to smile. Wayne no longer needs to _feel_.

Batman does not need to feel emotion.

But Terry McGinnis does.

And now he lets himself feel perhaps of the strongest emotions he's ever encountered. It is not the first time he lets himself slip, allows Batman and Terry McGinnis to blur, to mold together. It is not the first time he comes to this building—this one out of all others in Gotham. And it will not be the last.

He does not come here out of duty or obligation. In fact, he is breaking all manner of rules just by lingering here this night, when he has other matters to tend to. He should be patrolling the city, waiting in the shadows to pounce on the criminals that prowl Gotham nights, just as he does. He should be gone from here, flying away through the darkness to obey his calling.

But tonight, it is emotion that he obeys.

And he must obey it, just as he must obey on all the other nights he has ventured here—an apartment building tucked away on a corner, one of the many that are stationed throughout the city. The sixth floor, twelfth set of windows—set directly on the sharp edge of the building, farthest from the ground, yet closest to the roof. The proximity to the edge was no doubt a special request, a reassurance that any burglars will think twice before trying to scale their way up into this particular apartment. And were he any common thief, it would be too much trouble to try and gain access here. But for better or for worse, he is not common, and he is not a thief. And getting down to this window is nearly child's play.

It is not getting to this window of this apartment that is the challenge. The challenge is to keep his distance, to let himself indulge for a few short moments in this unfamiliar swirl of emotion, then take his leave without any further consequence.

But that has always been easier said than done, as are many things in this world.

His actions here are a well-practiced routine, just as they were well rehearsed before he ever allowed himself to venture here, to develop this habit. He always remains on the window ledge—it is always open here to allow cool night air into the room. It gives him just enough room to balance with little effort, and it saves him the trouble of easing open the window and disturbing the peace.

And then he just watches. It is what he has come to do, after all.

He has come to watch _her_.

He has come to watch her sleep.

It should be an innocent action, in and of itself. And yet he feels cruel, evil when he does this. He feels as though he contaminates her with his eyes by letting them linger on her in such a vulnerable state, when she cannot, could not protect herself.

It is not because of twisted or perverse thoughts that he feels this way.

It is because he threw her away—threw her words away in the trash, like _she_ was trash, garbage…unworthy of even the smallest courtesy, unworthy of reading her last words to him. Not a day has passed that he doesn't wonder what she wrote, what she wanted him to know if she didn't survive that mission.

He supposes this is his way of apologizing, his way of keeping watch over her. She is capable of protecting herself at all other times of the day. She could probably even keep herself protected at night, but he doesn't want to think about that. He wants to be useful to her now, in these short hours. He wants to sit here and watch her and protect her.

But that is not all he wants.

He wants to cross the boundaries he has made for himself. He wants to cross the line, to enter her bedroom and be closer to her. He wants it, he _needs_ it…he _**longs**_ for it. Desires it with every fiber of his being—as honest and true as any emotion can be.

He knows it is her and only her who can bring these emotions to life, and that is why he comes here. Being close to her soothes the wrenching ache that she has put within him, around his heart. It never lasts, and he knows he must return again and again to her.

But he knows it will never be enough, because the ache will only be soothed, the pain will only be quelled if they can be together. The longing will never cease unless he could hold her in his arms again, let himself taste her kiss and touch her hair. The desire will finally be satisfied if he can tell her that he does care, that he does want her. The clenching restraints around his heart will only be unlocked if he can wipe away those horrid words that she spoke to him last time they met, if he can convince her beyond any doubt that she _does_ exist to him…that he is not and has never wanted to be like her family.

Batman does not need or desire emotional connections. For Batman, they are a burden, a heavy weight on the conscience that would only interfere with his duties. For Batman, they are a weakness.

But Terry McGinnis does need them. He needs her.

And his desire drives him to step over the boundaries, to slip under the window, across the ledge. Now he is within the bounds of her bedroom. He should stop now, should backtrack and leave. In the distance, he can hear a siren crying out, calling and demanding his attention, demanding his presence.

He feels the tug of duty on his mind, but the magnetic pull of his emotions is far more inviting. The urge to let his feet touch the floor—_her_ floor—is strong. The longing to move closer to her, to watch her for a little while longer at her bedside is overwhelming. The desire to touch her, to feel her warmth just once more is painful.

And tonight, he doesn't think he can resist it any longer.

And as he lets his feet touch the thin carpet of her floor, he knows his resistance is gone.

She never sleeps in the same position. Some nights, he watches her sleep on her back; others, she sleeps on her side. And she never stays in the same position for long. He has watched her toss and turn in her sleep, and he has wondered if she is haunted by nightmares—unconscious images that he cannot protect her from, no matter how close he is to her.

He wishes he could be inside her head, defending her from whatever images her mind—or it is her memory?—produces that makes her body move so violently, fills her with a desire to break away, and yet she will remain trapped as long as she remains in sleep.

Tonight, she lies at an odd angle, with her upper body flat on the back, but her hips lifted in a half-turn. He has seen her hands folded neatly beneath her pillow on other nights, but not tonight. Tonight they are open, her fingers lying quietly on the sheets. She breathes slowly, deeply. No nightmares plague her yet; she sleeps in blissful oblivion.

The night is cool, but it is warm enough that her sheets have only been drawn up to her waist, just barely covering the warm, solid curves of her body, where her torso molds into perfectly sculpted hips and her long legs. He remembers the first time he saw her, and how he was unable to stop himself from looking at her hips—the way they swayed to and fro with each step she took—and her legs—the careful, deliberate slope of her thighs and calves, and the way she carried herself…like a dancer.

Tonight she wears a nightdress to bed—nothing more than a silk slip. The color is blue—royal blue that lies strikingly against the pale tone of her skin. The left strap has fallen down the slope of her shoulder, and he sees the cloth has slipped just enough to expose the top curve of her breast.

His hand moves before he can comprehend what it's doing, and he does something he promised he'd never do on these nights. He permits himself to touch her.

He realizes he hasn't touched her in a long, long time. The last time he remembers touching her is wrestling her to the rooftop, trying and failing to convince her to stop stealing. But he must have had some impact, he reminds himself, because she did stop. She's on the straight-and-narrow now…she's moved on.

And he knew she would. Because she's better than her parents…she deserves better than that.

He just wishes _he_ deserved her.

He nudges the strap back up over her shoulder. She barely moves, and he breathes a low sigh. He knows he should be relieved that she has not awakened. But he isn't, because deep down he _want_s her to wake up. He wants her eyes to open and let him look once again into those brilliant crystal-blue depths. He wants to drown himself in her eyes, in her embrace.

Because for Terry McGinnis, she is safe. And in these few moments that he allows himself to be near her…he can be safe.

Once again, his hand moves without permission, brushing a few loose platinum strands of hair away from her face. He longs to do it again, to let her hair trickle through his fingers, to feel it brush against his skin again.

A single finger crosses yet another boundary, moving down to touch her lips. He should fight the urge, but it is too strong. And he doesn't want to fight it, because he remembers how her lips feel. He remembers her kiss—urgent, passionate, and experienced. He allows himself to remember the desire to kiss her so deeply, so fervently and desperately that she will forget everything else. He remembers how it felt to hold her against him, and he wants to feel her body against his again, just one more time.

Her lips are as warm as he remembers, soft and dark and smooth. He feels to urge to lean forward, to kiss her lips just once more. And it takes every fiber of his will power to not give in, not yet.

Just as his hand prepares to draw away from her face, there is a touch to his wrist. It is warm and hesitant, careful and yet deliberate. He knows the touch immediately, and for a moment he panics, curses himself for crossing so many boundaries, breaking so many personal rules in one night.

But then he looks up and he finds himself staring into shocking blue depths. And he cannot help but feel a strange sense of peace, in spite of the predicament he has found himself in.

Her gaze is confused, uncertain. She looks as though she cannot quite determine whether or not this is a dream, whether or not he is real, or yet another dream that she must awaken from. Her eyes slide from his face—barely visible to her in this darkness—to his hand, which she cannot see but most certainly can feel.

And then she speaks, and he remembers how much he loved her voice. How much he will always love her voice. How much he has missed her voice.

"I thought it was you." she whispers, eyes never leaving his face, "I just wasn't sure. But now that I know it's you…why are you here?"

He'd like to answer her, of course, but the truth is he doesn't know the answer himself. He only knows that he is here, and he doesn't want to leave know. He doesn't want to leave at all, but he knows that when this night ends, he must.

But he doesn't have to leave yet.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asks quietly, keeping his eyes level with hers. She cannot see his eyes, and though he wishes she could, he knows better.

A pause follows, and for a moment, he fears her answer.

Both hands slowly rise, coming up to touch his wrists, first only with the very pads of her fingers, then the slender digits slowly descend, wrapping around his wrist to cradle his hand against her face. It feels strange—she has only done this to Terry McGinnis, never Batman. She's never wanted to touch Batman this way before…never.

But he wishes she would always touch him like this.

Her eyes flicker back up to his face. "No." she says quietly, "I don't think I do."

Another pause lingers on the air. Her eyes close briefly, and he lets himself believe she enjoys his touch for this moment. This moment that must pass all too soon.

"Will you stay with me…?" she finally speaks, and her voice is uncertain for a moment, yet it gains strength and resolve with her next words. "Just for a little while longer?"

His hand draws away from her face, but he does not allow her to remove her hands. Instead, he brings his other hand up, cupping her hands gently between his own. He can feel her warmth. She is so close…so close to him. He could grab her and kiss her, crush her body against his. He could give her all of him that he can possibly surrender.

And he would surrender to her…because she is the only one who he can trust with himself.

"Yes." He whispers.


End file.
